Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Flash Fiction

Two 101-word stories that I wrote for a contest.  Not suitable for children.


She’s obsessed with locks: deadbolts, chains, combination locks; doors, windows, car (even while driving).  There are nights she wakes up screaming and nights she doesn’t sleep at all.  She flinches when I touch her and it’s been three months since we made love.

I can’t tell her I understand how she feels because I don’t. I don’t tell her I’ll make it better because I can’t. I want to hold her to me and protect her from the bad people in the world. But when she needed me I wasn’t there. I’m useless to her.

It’s like he raped our marriage.

The Bridge

It was raining hard the night I met her. She was wearing that red scarf she likes so much.  Just a stranger on the bridge, but then I saw myself in her eyes and everything changed.

It wasn’t magic words but my strong, confident demeanor that changed her mind. She fell in love with that strength and confidence. I fell in love with her.

But sometimes I wonder what will happen when she realizes what I was doing that night on the bridge in the pouring rain. I dread the day she realizes that her strong, confident man needed saving too. 

Thursday, January 7, 2016

Short Story


I remember Jeff saying that I didn't love Monica. I loved the woman she could have been. He reminded me that it wasn't my job to save everybody. I didn't listen to him.

She had me from the first moment I saw her across the crowded cafe in the Village. She was so beautiful- with her long, dark hair and womanly curves- that at first I didn't notice the scar on her left wrist.

When things started getting serious between us, Monica told me how she used to have a drug problem and had slit her wrist in a botched suicide attempt.  She told me she was over all that and I believed her. After all, I had been quite the drinker once upon a time, so who was I to question her recovery?

About a year ago she moved in with me. And life was great. We liked the same movies, listened to the same bands, and I suppose our 8:00 bedtime was fun too. Sure, she had flaws. But her imperfections only made her more human, not less amazing. I couldn't imagine life without her. Then I got home one evening after my shift at Brentano's and she wasn't here. We had plans to watch the mimes in Washington Square, so I checked the machine. No message. No note on the fridge either. I called the art gallery where she worked, but was told she had left over an hour ago.

So now I sit here smoking cheap cigars, emptying another bottle of Kahlua.  Dylan's singing somewhere in the background, but it's not like I care. Monica's missing and I'm the heart-broken schmuck who misses her. But Jeff was wrong. I didn't want to save Monica. I wanted her to save me.